Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXC6BCZ1QSSSVDXNQNZEY6

The knock came at half past ten. Aurora looked up from the legal textbook she'd been pretending to study for the past hour, Ptolemy curled purring in her lap. Three sharp raps. No hesitation. Someone who knew what they wanted. She slid the cat off her lap and padded to the door, her socked feet silent on the worn carpet. The deadbolts turned with their familiar click-click-click. She pulled the door open and the air left her lungs. Lucien stood in the hallway, rain dampening the shoulders of his charcoal coat. His platinum hair was slicked back as always, that single amber eye catching the dim light from the stairwell. The other eye, the black one, fixed on her face. He held his ivory cane loosely in one hand, the fingers of his other hand resting on the doorframe as if he'd been ready to knock again. "Rory." Her name in his voice. That accented purr she'd spent months trying to forget. Her hand tightened on the door edge. "What are you doing here?" "May I come in?" The question was polite but his stance wasn't. He wasn't asking. He was waiting for her to move, or to slam the door in his face. She knew him well enough to read the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was set. Lucien Moreau didn't do vulnerability. Whatever had brought him here, it had cost him something to stand in this hallway. "It's late," she said. "It's half ten. You've always been a night owl." She felt her lips thin. "You've been keeping track." "I've been worried." The words came out rough, barely above a whisper. "May I come in, please?" Aurora stepped back. She wasn't sure why. Maybe because she'd dreamed about this moment for three months, alone in this flat with her books and her cat and the ache that wouldn't fully heal. Maybe because his face looked older than she remembered, the lines around his eyes deeper. Maybe because she was tired of being strong. Lucien entered, closing the door behind him. He didn't move to unlock the deadbolts. He knew better. Instead, he stood in the cramped entrance area, rain dripping from his coat onto the worn welcome mat, and looked around at the chaos of the flat. Stacked books. Scattered notes. The perpetual smell of curry from the restaurant below. "You look tired," he said. "You look like a drowned rat." The corner of his mouth twitched. "I've been worse." "I remember." Silence stretched between them. Ptolemy trotted out from the living room, tail up, and wove between Lucien's legs. The Frenchman looked down at the tabby, something softening in his expression. "Ptolemy remembers me." " Cats remember everyone. Doesn't mean they trust them." Lucien bent and scratched behind the cat's ears. Aurora watched the way his long fingers moved, the casual grace of it. She'd watched those hands do terrible things. She'd also watched them be impossibly gentle. That was the problem with Lucien Moreau. He contained contradictions and she'd fallen for all of them. She crossed her arms. "How did you find me?" "Eva." "Of course." "She was reluctant. I had to promise several things I intend not to deliver on." Aurora almost smiled. Almost. "You're awful." "I'm persistent." "That's the same thing." He straightened, tucking his cane under his arm. His eyes met hers and held. That heterochromatic gaze always undid her, the amber warmth against the void black. Most people looked away. Lucien never did. "You left," he said. "Without a word. Without—" "I left plenty of words. You just didn't like them." "You said it was over. You didn't say why." "Didn't I?" "I remember every word you've ever said to me, Rory. I replay them like a man gone mad." His voice dropped, roughened at the edges. "You said we'd never work. You said I was dangerous. You said—" "I said I couldn't watch you become something I couldn't save." The words came out sharper than she intended. She turned away, pressing her hand to her forehead. "I said a lot of things. They were all true." "They were all excuses." She spun back to face him. "Excuse me?" "You were scared." He stepped closer, just one step, and the air in the room changed. "That's all. You were scared of what you felt, and you ran." "I was not—" "You were. You are." Another step. "I know because I've been doing the same thing for three months. Telling myself I don't need you. That you're better off without me. That I'd only destroy you like I destroy everything I touch." "Lucien—" "But I'm here anyway." His voice cracked on the last word. He stopped, took a breath, steadied himself. "I'm here because I'm tired of being noble. I'm tired of doing what's right. I want you, Rory. I want you more than I've wanted anything in my entire existence. And I don't care if that's selfish. I don't care if it destroys us. I just—" She kissed him. It wasn't graceful. Her hand caught the lapel of his wet coat, pulling him down to her level, and their teeth clicked together awkwardly. But Lucien made a sound like a man drowning and his arms came around her, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other pressing her close against his chest. His coat was cold and wet against her shirt but his mouth was warm, his tongue sweeping past her lips with a desperation that made her knees weak. When they broke apart, they were both breathing hard. His amber eye had gone dark, the black one burning with something that wasn't quite human. "That was," he started. "Shut up." She kissed him again, and this time it was better. Slower. His cane clattered to the floor as he pulled her closer, his hand sliding down her back to the curve of her hip. She tasted coffee and something faintly smokey, something that might have been magic or might have been him. She didn't care. She just wanted more. His mouth moved to her jaw, her throat, his breath hot against her skin. "Rory," he murmured against her neck. "Tell me to stop." "Why?" "Because you should. Because I'm exactly as dangerous as you feared." She pulled back just far enough to look at him. His hair had come loose from its careful styling, falling across his forehead. He looked younger like this. Wrecked. Beautiful. "You're here," she said. "You came anyway." "I did." "Then stay." Something shifted in his expression. The fear underneath the want, the hope she hadn't let herself feel for months. He lifted his hand, traced the curve of her cheek with his thumb. "I don't know how to be what you need." "Neither do I." She covered his hand with hers, pressing it tighter against her face. "But I'm so tired of doing this alone." He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the black had receded, leaving just that warm amber fixed on her face. "Then we figure it out," he said. "Together." Ptolemy meowed at their feet, demanding attention. They both laughed, shaky and uncertain, and Lucien bent to scoop the cat up while Aurora wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. She didn't know what came next. Didn't know if this was the beginning or just another beautiful mistake. But his hand found hers, lacing their fingers together, and for the first time in months, the flat on Brick Lane felt like home.